The Little Things
by Griselda Banks
Summary: Oneshot. "It's the little things I miss most." A look into Gracia's life, years after the series. Spoilers for Episode 25 and Chapter 16.


**Author's Note: I wrote this shortly after "Medium-Sized Heaven," because I was curious to see how Gracia would handle the years after Maes's death. And somehow, I could just hear her voice say, "It's the little things I miss most." This is one of my favorite pieces so far, despite how short it is.**

It's the little things I miss most.

Of course, I miss the big things too. I miss having a constant companion, a best friend for life. I miss the swelling feeling in my heart that some people call love and he called radiance. There's a great, empty void inside me where he used to be, and I miss him – terribly.

Still, what brings tears to my eyes most often are the little things, the mundane, everyday things you wouldn't think would matter that much. But they do.

When I reach into the cupboard to set the table for dinner, I automatically pull out three plates. I sometimes set three places at the table, right down to the napkins and dessert forks, and then I look at his usual seat. And I remember. Oh, how well I remember! It brings tears to my eyes when I have to pick up the dishes and put them away again, as though I'm packing him away forever as well.

I miss doing his laundry. I miss the crumpled shirts, the socks that always managed to get inside-out somehow. I miss ironing his uniform, and I miss the pungent odor of his shoe polish in the hallway. I miss the shaving cream, and I miss the puddles he would leave on the bathroom floor after a shower. I miss having to mop them up.

In that first month, I still kept to my side of the bed. But one morning, I woke up and happened to look across at the other side. It was made up, nice and neat, just as my mother had taught me. But when I saw it, I burst into tears and hastily messed up the sheets. Now I never make the bed, and some nights I sleep on the other side to make an imprint in the other pillow. It's like the games of pretend Elysia plays with herself, but it's the best I can do.

When I came to see his body, lying so still and cold in the coffin, they asked me if I wanted his ring. They were surprised when I refused, but our rings connect us, and I wouldn't want that connection broken. Not now, not when we can't make that connection again. So I asked them to keep the ring on his finger, but I did ask for his glasses. They looked at me strangely again, but complied. I know glasses might seem like a strange memento, but to me they symbolize my husband more than anything else.

They're rimless glasses with rectangular lenses, a little bent from when he fell to the ground on his last night. They sit on my bedside table now, next to the framed picture of our little family. Sometimes I'll pick them up and perch them on my own nose, remembering the day he first got glasses. We were ten, and everyone teased him, calling him 'Four-Eyes' and such. It got so bad that he ran off crying that afternoon. I followed him, though he told me to 'buzz off' and 'mind your own beeswax.' But I told him I liked the glasses, that they made him look smart, and that seemed to cheer him up again. He made me try on the glasses as well, and it became something of a tradition for me to try them on as well whenever he got new glasses – which was quite often; he loved sports.

I miss the little things he'd do for me: the times he would call from work, the times he'd get a babysitter for Elysia so we could have time alone together, the times he held me when I cried.

When I was fourteen, I cried a lot. Almost every day, on a bad week. Every time he came across me when I was crying, he would put his hand on my shoulder and ask softly, "What is it?" Back then, it was usually that I didn't understand my math homework, or that I hadn't been invited to a slumber party. And he always came up with a solution that wiped away my tears – he would help me with my homework, or tell me a funny story that made me forget my woes.

Things didn't change much even after we were married. If he came across me as I was crying, he would always put his arm around me and ask, "What is it?" And he was always able to make my tears go away – with a kiss, a funny story, or a promise. He made sure that there weren't many times he found me crying. Now, whenever I find myself crying, I long for him to wrap his arms around me again and ask in that special way of his, "What is it?" But he doesn't, and I'm alone. He never made me cry in life, so I suppose it's to be expected that his death would make me cry.

I think it's the little things that make up a man such as my husband. When his friends think of him, they probably remember his humor, his photos, or his stubborn loyalty. But when I think of him, I remember puddles, glasses, and rolled-up socks. That is my darling. That is my Maes Hughes.


End file.
